*What do Dora, Magellan, the Fugitive, and Fiona All Have In Common?

*They are all messily referenced in this hodge-podge that I call a blog post. Enjoy.

Although not yet as funny as I'd like this story to be as I type it, I am ready to air some dirty little five year old laundry. My daughter- kindergartner, pony and puppy lover, Dick and Jane enthusiast, bubble blower, fugitive.

Although kindergarten is still relatively new to her, Fiona has been going for almost 3 months now. 3 months may not be long enough to return double-digit addition and subtraction flashcard answers, but it sure is long enough to offer this structure-hungry family a routine. If nothing else has been accomplished by enrolling her 3/4ths through the school year, I can at least say that we are all going to bed earlier, we're waking up earlier, we're practicing some much-needed rules of organization and order (that I'm embarrassed to admit I bucked for so long), and we all assume our individual roles, whatever they may be. Daddy: hunter/animator. Mommy: gatherer/shopper and furniture re-arranger. Neve: the little lamb that is always underfoot. Fiona: the other little lamb that goes to school/ boundary-pushing extraordinaire.

~Friday afternoon~

Just like every day before this, I pack Neve into her car seat at 2:10. We arrive at the school's car rider lanes by 2:15. I flip through a magazine as I wait another 10- 15 minutes for Fiona to skip to the car door, and wait while an over-eager 5th grader practically catapults her inside. Seriously, every day. It's become one of my favorite times of the day; my intermission before entering Act 2: Playtime, Homework, Dinner, and Dad.

This particular day, however, I waited a little longer than usual. The school's P.E. teacher doubles as a walkie-talkie man, calling out the numbers of each child who are waiting to find out if they've made bail, er, I mean, are ready to get into their car seats. On Friday, Coach Walkie-Talkie had to call Fiona's number 5 times before going inside to see where she could be. Seconds later, through my rear view mirror I see him dart towards my door. I immediately realize something's wrong with the feel of all this, so I jump out, prepared for whatever news I'm about to get.

Him: "They said Fiona walked home."

Me: "WHAT!? WE LIVE 4 MILES AWAY! IN ANOTHER CITY FOR THAT MATTER! SHE'S 5!!!"

Him: "Hold on." (He presses some button that calls the front office.) "Front Office, Front Office. Are you there? Come in, Front Office."

Me: "Do I have time to wait for the office? What if she's on the street trying to walk home?"

Him: "Hold on. We'll find her. FRONT OFFICE, FRONT OFFICE. DO YOU COPY?"

Me: "I'm going to the office myself."

By the time I get to the front office, my mind has thought of every last awful scenario a mother can allow herself to assume could happen outside of her control. I'm in a full-blown panic mode.

The principal is sitting at the front desk.

Me: "I'm Fiona's mom. Do you know where she is?! They said she WALKED home? But she couldn't have... someone would have stopped a 5 year old, right?"

Her: "Who's her teacher?"

I give her the name, and ask if I can run back to the classroom myself. She tells me to relax as she asks the woman to report to the front office over the intercom.

Waiting. Waiting.

Me: "I can't wait any longer. Could she have left school grounds?!"

Her: "I hope not." She slowly begins filling out some neon visitor sticker, which is about to send me over the front desk in fit of rage.

I grab the sticker and run back to the classroom. I meet coach Walkie-Talkie who's been running through the school himself, yelling Fiona's name. The intercom calls for both Fiona and her teacher. The classroom door is locked and the lights are out. I begin that hysteria cry that has been known to send almost every man in my life into a fetal position. At that point, I see her teacher running towards me.

"Mrs. White, Mrs. White! I've made a huge mistake! Hop in my car and I'll tell you what happened!"

Through sobs, pounding heartbeats, and shock, I gathered that Fiona informed her teacher that she would be walking home that day. And for whatever reason, her teacher was convinced enough by her lie to let her do just that. Without a note from me or a verification call from her. Just a 5 year old out the front door.

3 months is also not long enough for my child to know the ins and outs of how to get home. There are busy streets for her to cross without sidewalks, there are traintracks to cross, there are shady Industrial Parks and vacant lots that I cut through... it's no set to Leave It To Beaver, that's for sure.

I picture her thinking this was like some Dora the Explorer adventure, where she consults her friend, Map, who says, "Fiona and Boots need to go ooooover the busy highway, crooooss the train tracks, aroooound the unkept cemetary, and throooough the neighborhood of crack houses. And then you're home!" Seriously, I wouldn't even take that walk.

So, I'm in her teacher's front seat, Neve is in the backseat. The teacher's chanting, "Oh, Jesus, dear Lord. Oh, dear Jesus, I'm an idiot. Lord, what have I done?"

Through a series of hearsay accounts by construction workers, crossing guards, and city workers, I'm told that a little short-haired blonde girl is with 2 police officers in the parking lot of an old pizza place. I know the place (I couldn't believe how far those short legs walked), and we zip over there.

An entire hour has passed by this time. I'm ready to simultaneously spank and kiss the living Magellan out of her. I see her big head and white skinny legs off in the distance. The two police officers are squatting as they talk to her.

If she had a tail, it would have been tucked under body, the moment we pulled up. She knew what she had done. The male police officer that was squatting asked me to put Fiona in the car so that he can talk to me. To further complicate matters, to further scare the begeegees out of me, to further paint this awful moment in a COPS-esque light, Fiona lied again! She told the police that she walks home every day. And why wouldn't he believe that same sweet convincing face that had just allowed her to make the perfect jail-break? I was about to be in trouble.

In no time, Fiona confessed that she wanted so badly to walk home "like a big girl does", that she was willing to lie to every authority that exists in Atlanta. The cop explained to her that her lies put her in danger (as well as her mother- had they believed that she really did walk home every day alone, I could have had DFCS after me). Apparently, the police were called when another crossing guard saw her cross the street on a green light. She could tell that Fiona didn't know where she was going or what she was doing.

All this goes without saying just how terrifying it is to not know where your child is for even a second, let alone an entire hour. But my mind has yet to really wrap itself around the bigger fear here- the fear of letting go of my children one day. While instances like this may not be the norm, this was only a glimpse at the heartbreak in knowing that we won't have as much control as we'd like in days to come. Ultimately, my children are His. There are too many horrific alternate scenarios that God spared us from for me to even allow myself to go there.

I don't know what's to come for Fiona's teacher. Any time one adult (in this case the principal) uses the word "discipline" as a course of action for another adult, I cringe. She did a dumb thing, believing my kid and all, but Fiona's safe and that's what matters.

As for Fiona's discipline, after the weekend she had and the week of hell that she's in the midst of now (imagine the entire family eating ice cream in front of her), I feel confident that there will be no more jail breaks and (hopefully) fewer lies. At least less lying to law enforcement. Jeez-o.

Fiona, how many times do I have to tell you? There are weirdos everywhere!

(Uncle Joey with Neve, Easter Sunday 2009)